


Little Fires

by 3lvendork



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Azkaban, Lost Years, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-First War with Voldemort, one day in their life apart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:42:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26372155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3lvendork/pseuds/3lvendork
Summary: Sirius is in Azkaban and Remus is indulging in self-pityOr:Of love and other dark magic
Relationships: Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	Little Fires

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you [snogboxandahalf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snogboxandahalf/profile) for the amazing beta work and for helping me turn the angst up a notch :) All remaining mistakes are mine.

He feels the Dementors coming before he sees them. The quiet comes first. It`s still and silent - too silent, for Azkaban. That was the first thing Sirius had noticed when he had arrived; the wailing of prisoners long since driven mad. Worse, though, than the wailing, is the quiet. Sirius learned quickly to dread the quiet. A chill passes through his thin Azkaban robes, catching in his throat and pulling the air from his lungs. His eyes dart desperately around the grimy cell, trying to focus on something, _anything,_ but the hopelessness creeping into his heart as the dementors draw near.

 _Something happy,_ he thinks to himself, _James on his broom, no, James is dead. Little Harry, then. Little Harry Potter, my godson. With his green eyes and his tiny fingers--_ he falters. The dementors have begun to pass by the bars of his cell. _Breathe in. One-two-three-four. Breathe out. Four-three-two-one. Repeat._ He watches them glide out of sight. Breathe out.

He`s got sixty minutes until they return. They are unfailingly punctual; gliding past Sirius` cell every hour to absorb his hope and leave a gaping hole in its place. Breathe. It`s not exactly paradise between the patrols, but at least he`s not consumed with the helplesness that paralyzes him in those horrible, quiet moments. He counts the minutes sometimes. He counts everything these days, the stones on the walls, his teeth with his tongue, his ribs, the stars, the days, his breaths.

He used to mark the days, too, as he counted them. He would scratch little lines into the wall with a sharp rock he had found under his bed, but he gave up after seventy-three. He figured it was all a little pointless, when all you can see through the bars of your window is a stormy sky and there`s no way to tell whether it`s winter or spring because it`s always grey and always cold. But he can see the moon. He looks out for it each night, waiting for the clouds to shift so he can catch a glimpse of its silvery glow. When he`s lucky, the moon is gracious enough to bless his godforsaken cell with shimmering light. It feels sacred, somehow. Sometimes he can`t remember why he looks for it, sometimes he can`t even remember his own name, until he does again, but he always, _always_ knows what brought him here.

As much as he`s drawn to the moon, he hates its purity. It mocks him, night after night, reminding him that he deserves to be rotting in this cell. His guilt gnaws on his insides, sharp and cruel, reducing him to a broken, desperate mess. It`s easier when he shifts into a dog. The guilt lessens, just a little bit, and he can remember a name: Padfoot. As Padfoot, the time seems to shift and bend. It`s easier to pretend he`s somewhere else, even as the screams and cries of the other prisoners echo through the walls.

He`s human when it matters, though. He`s human on nights like tonight, when the moon is full. He clenches his fists until his nails break the skin in his palms and it hurts and it doesn`t fucking matter. _It`s almost over, Moony_ , he thinks as dawn begins to break, stars still peppering an indigo sky. 

Sirius lives for the tender hour where the moon lingers in the sky, trying to catch a glimpse of the sun. It was those precious moments after daybreak when the sky was stained purple that Remus always came back to himself. Sirius stands against the stone walls of his cell and stares out of the window. He thinks wistfully of how he used to hold Remus in his arms, murmuring healing spells, matching their breath. He whispers his reasurrances now to himself: _I`m here, I`ve got you._ He wants to cry or scream because he feels like he`s two heartbeats from losing his mind all the goddamn time.

The walls of his cell are made of 1278 stones. He has - no, had - known James for 3711 days. He spent 68 full moons with Remus. He would never see the 69th. The irony wasn`t lost on him.

He recites the names of runes and incantations to himself, terrified to forget them, even though he`ll never need them again. One time, a visitor (someone`s monther? Sister? Sirius has no one left to visit him) had dropped a cigarette just outside his cell. He spent a day trying to summon it, but without a wand it was useless. There`s only so far wandless magic can get you and it`s nowhere, really.

The irony is, had he been able to summon the cigarette, he would have been able to light it. He had practiced that skill ever since he was fourteen, when he and McKinnon used to duck behind the broomshed for a smoke. He had thought it was rather funny, being able to summon fire at his fingertips only to light up a muggle cigarette. He murmurs the spell now, for old time`s sake, watching the tiny flame flicker on the palm of his hand, it`s weak and it hardly warms his skin, but it`s there. He stares at it for a long time, allowing himself to be lost in the red-orange glow. It`s a way to pass the time. It`s better than staring at the wall, or counting his crooked tally marks again, or trying to grasp at the ghosts of memories he`s nearly forgotten. He has lots of time. It`s all he has. The flame makes the shadows dance.

The room falls deathly silent. The cold comes back like a punch to the stomach. His sixty minutes are up. He holds his breat and the flame sputters out.

*

Some days, the worst days, he can`t remember what Remus looks like. When he tries, the picture is blurry, like static on a muggle telly. He can remember the love, though. He`s not sure why he hasn`t lost that to the dementors yet, but he supposes it`s because love isn`t exactly a happy memory, is it, not when the one you love despises you with every fiber of their being.

He remembers Remus sitting on their sofa and reading out loud to him, bits on intuitive telepathy from a ridiculous muggle book on witchcraft. They had found it deep in a tiny antiques store in the heart of muggle London, stuffed between a dusty camera and a broken lamp. Remus spotted the book first; its bright blue cover caught his eye through the clutter. Sirius was drawn to the camera beside it, and they left the store with two entirely useless items and a new inside joke. To be fair, there were certainly components of Legilimency, but overall it was utter nonsense. _How does it work exactly? Moony_ , _do_ _you know I used to wank to the thought of you for years at school, wilshing you to pick up on it_ telepathically _but you never did._

Sirius paces the length of his cell, relishing in the memory. He almost feels warm; maybe the dementors haven`t stolen all of his happiness yet.

He wishes now he`d paid more attention to the sodding book, maybe he would be able to send Remus a brainwave or something, saying… saying what exactly? _I`m sorry, Remus, I fucked up royally because I couldn`t trust you?_ Yeah. That`ll do it. But he wants to tell him that he loves him, that he never stopped, even when he believed that Remus was the spy, he loved him anyway. He always did and he always will. Until he dies in this hellhole.

He wants to scream, just _scream_ and cry and it`s all he can do, until his voice is hoarse and his throat raw. Until nothing matters any more. Sometimes he doesn`t get up from his bed for days, doesn`t move, allowing the darkness to wash over him and consume him whole. _I`m sorry, I`m sorry, I`m so sorry. I love you._

The thin mattress does nothing to soften the iron bed beneath it as he stretches his legs and covers his face with his hands. Maybe he can get some sleep now, to pass the time. He closes his eyes and thinks of nothing and counts the letters in the alphabet, assigning them their Arithmancy numbers, until he falls asleep.

He dreams of flames shaped like serpents and pain and wakes up sweaty, breathing heavily and confused, with Remus` name on his lips.

*

Birdsong echoes through the treetops as the full moon fades against a pale blue sky. The air smells strongly of pine needles and a layer of dew coats the grass. Remus sits beneath an enormous tree at the edge of the wood with his eyes closed and his naked back pressed against the trunk. He leans his head back, letting it knock against the tree as he attempts to fight off the oncoming nausea. Idly, he wonders what would happen if he tried to _obliviate_ himself, toying with the idea for a while as he considers the ramifications of an inevitable (and most likely permanent) trip to St. Mungo`s.

He breathes through the aftermath of the full moon, taking account of the scars and aches brought on by the night. It feels like he has sat there for years or days or maybe just a few moments, he isn`t sure. He doesn`t bother with healing spells - he doesn`t even keep dittany in his old bathroom cupboard. It`s twisted but he _wants_ the hurt because somehow, maybe just for a little bit, the sharp pain of torn skin and broken bones might cover up the dull empty ache humming inside him.

Remus doesn`t want to think about it, but it consumes his every waking moment. Two years and ten months after the fact, since he has been fucked by life and by fate in every concievable way, and he`s tired in a way that has nothing to do with the full moon. He`s sick of the anger and resentment, sick of the hatred that fills his heart because it drains him dry and leaves him lonely.

Often, too often, he has sat down and begun to pen a letter to Sirius only to burn every unfinished one, thinking sourly of the way Sirius could make flames dance across his fingertips at will.

 _S_ _ay Sirius, how did it feel to betray everyone and everything I ever loved?_

What exactly did he want to hear? He knew everything he needed to. Sirius had betrayed them all. He got James and Lily murdered in their home. He murdered Peter himself. He is the reason Remus couldn`t find peace now; he is the reason that Remus now sat alone at the edge of a forest in fucking _Wales._ No, he didn`t need to get any answers. Sirius had never loved him.

And yet, every so often there is this impulse, like a pang at the pit of his stomach. It makes him sit down with a piece of parchment and start forming the words that flow out of him in a rush. He does it again and again, never sending any of the unfinished letters, always ending abruptly mid-sentence, angry at himself for entertaining the possibility of asking for an explanation. For even expecting one to be there. And then he tries to dim the acid feeling it causes him with enough alcohol to drown a grindylow and paying for it with a royal hangover the next day.

The thing is, he should feel numb by now. He has bled himself dry with the pain and the hate and the anger but somehow, agaist all odds, he can`t stop loving Sirius. It`s twisted and sick, but he misses Sirius the most. More than James and Peter and Lily and Harry... Harry, who will never know what he`s lost. It`s like a fucked up joke with no punchline: even when he wants to break down the walls of Azkaban himself just to strangle Sirius with his bare hands, he _still_ misses him. 

Warm memories float to the surface of his mind, unbidden. He doesn`t have the energy to push them away, not after the transformation.

They`re eleven and too small for their robes; they`re sixteen and the Gryffindor common room is crowded and loud; they`re twenty and Sirius sits atop a gleaming motorbike, smirking in that way Remus could never resist. He feels ill; he doesn`t want this, these moments bursting in his mind like popcorn kernels, making him dizzy and nauseaus.

Finally, he snaps his eyes open. The sun has nearly risen and golden sunlight filters through the leaves, casting dappled shadows on his naked skin. He stands unsteadily and begins to limp towards the small cottage on the edge of the wood.

The kitchen is small and simple. The cottage was his mother`s before his, and her mother`s before that. It once belonged to an estate that has long-since fallen into disrepair, but the groundskeeper`s home has been kept with care by the generations before Remus. It sits rather filthy now, littered with empty bottles and old takeout containers.

He bypasses the mess in favor of setting his coffee pot and scouring his cabinets for a clean mug. By the time he finds one, the coffee is bubbling and hissing in a steady stream. He doesn`t bother waiting for the cycle to finish before pouring out a cup, relishing in the pain when the boiling coffee spills over and burns his skin, as if he hoards it, as if it`s something he craves, something beautiful. He sits at the battered wooden table and lights a cigarette, his hands shaking, and wonders if it`s too early to open a bottle of gin.

He considers all the things that he never fought for – Harry, _because it had to be this way_ , Dumbledore said and Remus didn`t question it. The fact Sirius never got a trial – because there wasn`t a reason to, there were witnesses and he was in no state to answer questions anyway. Did he deserve one? Was there ever even a tiniest shred of hope that maybe, maybe things aren`t always the way they seem? And if so, Remus doesn`t know what`s worse – that Sirius is guilty or the impossible chance that he isn’t, but somehow, they let it come to this anyway.

But _no,_ because he must be guilty. Remus has been through every detail of that night countless times. At first he obsessed. He visited the site of the explosion. He saw Peter`s finger. Night after night, he pored over the the case file he had (admittedly illegaly) duplicated. After time, though, he found himself forced to admit there was no way that Sirius could be innocent. But still, he finds himself holding out hope, pouring over the yellowed files and retracing dead ends like Sisyphus and his boulder. He continues to search in vain rather than admit that his love, the only man who ever made him feel wanted, is a fraud.

He takes a sip of the scalding coffee in an attemp to relieve his pounding headache. He wants a sleeping draught, or, god, even some fucking weed. He can`t afford it, he knows. He remembers the mornings after the full moon in the shitty one-bedroom flat he shared with Sirius in London right after graduation. They`d smoke a joint out on the balcony, watching the city wake up below them. Sometimes James or Pete would come for the adventures and stay through the morning, but most of the time it was just Sirius and Remus. The two of them would lounge on the soft shag rug and listen to old records that Sirius had collected from muggle thrift stores, basking in the scent of weed and the soft pink glow of the morning sky. Those long mornings had felt eternal; their fingers and limbs tangled together, Sirius` hair in his face, the constant thought of _I want this, exactly this, always, always._

His eyes have begun to sting at the memory - he hadn`t realized. Belatedly, he presses his palms to his cheeks in an attempt to stop the tears; it doesn`t work.

He wants to move on, he really does, or at least that`s what he tells the people who bother to ask. He tried, or half tried, or didn`t really try at all. He would never allow anybody to get as close as Sirius did, who didn`t ask for permission before working his way into Remus` life, growing around him like vine. He took Remus apart and then folded all the pieces back together, gently.

In lieu of weed or something stronger, Remus toys with the idea of writing another letter. Though tempting, it won`t satisfy the dull ache inside of him that longs for closure, as foolish as it seems. There is no more closure to be had, when three of his best friends are dead at the hands of the only man he`s ever loved. What could Sirius possibly have to say that would change any of that?

He lights another cigarette and pulls yesterday`s Prophet towards him, fumbling through to find the classifieds. He skims through them, in search of a job that won`t ask too many questions, only to fold it away immediately, headache bordering on severe. The tang of last night still on his tongue, metallic and raw, he crushes the cigarette in an overflowing ashtray and goes to brush his teeth.

He hates it, but he sees Sirius in the bathroom. He can`t help but recall the morning after they finally confessed their feelings, the morning after they had finally fucked. Sirius had surprised him in the dingy, awful bathroom and kissed him through his toothpaste, despite his sleep-hazy protests. It tasted of mint and spring, of coming home and late nights and lazy days spent lounging in each others company as though they had all the time in the world.

Remus blinks, turning away from his reflection in the mirror. He hates this; he hates himself. He had tucked these memories deep inside the folds of his heart, long since locking away the love he felt for Sirius Black.

But you can`t just stop loving someone, even though they turn out to be a traitor and a murderer, you can`t turn it off with a wave of your wand, it doesn`t work that way. He loves Sirius, he loved him then and he loves him now, even though it`s all been a lie, even though Sirius took everything he ever had.

He`s spiraling. He knows he`s spiraling, and there`s never anything good at the bottom of the pit, but he can`t stop now. He`s too far gone. So, he grabs the gin and climbs up the stairs, all the way to the attic, despite his aching bones and despite the promise he made to never again look in the boxes gathering dust in his attic; an empty pledge that was bound to be broken. He should have set them on fire long ago, burned them on the same pyre that burned for two of his closest friends. He had stood there as the heat cracked his lips dry, the only one left from his found family. He should have left these old boxes to burn with the rest of his memories, but he was weak. He didn`t; couldn`t; and three years later finds him kneeling in a dusty attic with red rimmed eyes, staring at photo albums full of people he wished he could forget.

A photograph falls from the album between his hands, loose and out of place. If flutters to the floor quietly, too gentle for the pain and hatred roiling within Remus. He picks it up. He can`t help it. There`s a date written on the back in his own neat handwriting, but one look and he remembers. December 1979. Christmas in London.

Festive lights twinkle in the back of the photograph, blurry and beautiful. Sirius looks up at the camera, taking a drag from his cigarette. As Remus watches, the photograph-Sirius winks. He`s smiling in a way that seems to melt Remus` insides, even now, even in the stuffy attic as he shakes from the full moon and the gin and the anger. He remembers the kiss that came after the photograph; the taste of the cigarette on his tongue and something else that he can`t name and then a gentle breath: _you`re the best thing that has ever happened to me, Moony._ Remus had smiled, murmuring _second best, after chocolate cake. Don`t think I forgot what you did to it in the kitchens after detention, you absolute monster._

He`s crying. He can feel the wetness on his cheeks and his chest is heaving with the effort of keeping in his sobs. Photograph-Sirius winks at him again, and Remus takes a swig of his gin.

He tucks the photo away and turns the page. Lily and Marlene flew on a muggle merry-go-round, calling to somebody out of frame. He remembers that too; they were trying to convince James to join them. It was his first time on a merry-go-round. He had joined, eventually, and talked about it for nearly an hour afterwards. It had been one of those rare moments, where a wizarding child saw the magic of the muggle world for the first time.

He looks through the photographs one by one. He lingers too long on some, staring at Sirius` face and trying to imagine how he could have fooled them all so well. It`s almost worse when Sirius isn`t in the photographs, though, because even when he`s hidden from the camera, Remus _remembers._ It`s the things that couldn`t have been captured on film, however magical, that haunt him most. It`s the sound of his laughter, loud and easy, forever too raucous for the quiet dignity of the Black family. It`s the way his breath hitched when Remus slid a hand around his waist and up along his ribs. It`s the way he smelled of those fucking _stupid_ menthol cigarettes he smoked and cracked leather and just a little bit of wet dog.

The camera is still there, sitting amongst the dusty pile of memories. He remembers the day they found it, too; it was hidden deep inside a muggle antiques shop on Portobello Road. Sirius had disassembled the ancient camera with care, fiddling with the plastic bits and pieces night after night until it could develop moving photos. Remus reaches into the box and takes it out of its worn leather case, wondering absently whether it still works, whether it`s still full of Sirius` magic.

He runs his fingertips along the silver knobs and buttons, thinking that this may be the very last thing left of Sirius; he can hear the spidery web of charms thrum steadily through the muggle technology, if he concentrates for long enough. It makes him want to smash the camera until the magic and machinery are strewn across the floorboards and he is _stuck,_ stuck in the longing for yesterday when all that`s left are too many tomorrows.

The albums speak to a shared history, a record of foolish youth, and Remus can hardly recognize himself in the photographs. It feels like he`s looking into somebody else`s life, ligh years away. They built their own world together, filling it to the brim with themselves, protecting it with charms and quiet whispers and he wonders how he ever even _dared_ to love Sirius, how he didn`t imagine that they were running on borrowed time and he should have known when the world came crushing around them.

He feels like doing something impulsive and stupid, like setting this house aflame or running away to join a cult. It`s the sort of thing Sirius would have done, he thinks, and he breaths out a humourless laugh before reaching for another box. It takes him a moment, but he finally finds what he`s looking for: a stack of notes scrawled unceremoniously on torn newspaper scraps and the backsides of old Arithmancy homeworks. It was Sirius` stupid habit of stealing his bookmarks and replacing them with hastily written notes on the occasions that he left the flat before Remus woke up. Often they were simply lighthearted nonsense, most of them rude, but some were as simple as _good morning, Moony._ Now, so many years later, his hands begin to shake at the sight of the handwriting; the neat cursive is familiar in a way that tugs on his heartstrings, and he absently traces the thin loop of an L. _See you tonight, love!_

He feels ancient now, as the August-sticky sun beats through a small skylight nestled in the roof of the attic, illuminating the stacks of long-dead history surrounding him. How could it be, that he`s the only one left? How is he supposed to go on without Sirius` ridiculous notes and menthol cigarettes and his steadying kisses? Suddenly, he remembers the book he was reading on that Halloween three years ago, the one he had abandoned forever when an owl had come bearing the worst news since he was five. It must be here somewhere too, with the rest of the things he`d vowed to forget. He rummages through the boxes, heart beating high in his throat. Desperately, pathetically, he searches for one more lie and then he finds it. There is is, ink dry and just a little faded, one more note. It`s folded between pages ninety-six and ninety-seven, scrawled along the bottom of a drugstore receipt. _I love you._

It`s like the words have sucked all the air from his lungs. He closes his eyes, unable to look at Sirius` love any longer, and instead focuses on the sounds of blood pumping through his ears. His heart hammers against his chest, reminding him: _liar-liar-liar._ He can`t help but cling to it like a lifeline, like he wants nothing more than to be lied to, like it`s the only thing that ever meant anything at all. This time he doesn`t fight the tears when they come. Quiet sobs wrack trhough his body as he opens his eyes once more, studying the faded receipt with newfound fervour. He whispers the words, feels them on his tongue, cursing their birth beneath the liar`s moon. He wants to kiss the lies out of Sirius` mouth just one more time, they tasted so sweet when he spoke.

Sirius said them easily and often, with his mouth full of Weetabix at breakfast; shouted from the shower through the door that never closed properly; with his fists twisting the bedsheets, breathless; whispered hazily just before sleep, like a secret. But, after all, they`re just words, aren`t they?

He wants to tell Sirius all of this: how he feels that he might never breathe again, and how he doesn`t want to love him but doesn`t know how. How it`s like trying to get rid of his magic. How he`s just so damn tired from arguing with himself night after night and how all he wants to do is sleep for twelve years and forget everything, call the Knight bus and never get off, fall off the edge of the world. Most of all, he wants to say how he can`t bring himself to hate Sirius for it at all.

Instead, he folds all the albums back in the boxes, arranging them orderly around the rest of the clutter, tightly closing the lids and spello-taping them three times each. _Right,_ he thinks to himself, _it`s time._ He stands and grasps his wand, levitating the boxes before him as he stumbles his way down the stairs and out to the overgrown garden. He feels unhinged; Sirius` words still echoing in his brain. He wishes he could etch them on the insides of his eyelids and see them each time he closes his eyes to get away from the world. It`s perverse, he knows, but he craves the lies like a drug. The boxes land atop mossy cobblestones with a _thunk_ , bringing him back to reality. Wildly, he thinks of cleansing rituals and exorcirms that he read about in that silly muggle book a thousand lifetimes ago and thinks of the irony of it all; he, too, is searching for a release from the haunted life he leads.

He raises his wand and aims it at the boxes before him, pausing for a moment. Regular fire isn`t enough, no, _nothing_ will ever be enough. There is one thing, though; he had read about it in school, in a book from the restricted section and then again while laying on a lumpy sofa with Sirius` fingers tangled into his hair. Both times, he had thought it was entirely unnecessary. Now, though, staring down the boxes of his past, he understands. Fire is a fickle thing, and sometimes you can`t afford to take risks.

He lets out a breath he`s been holding and speaks the incantation. It feels poisonous as it slithers from his lips, pervading the dewy morning air. He waits for the fiendfyre to engulf everything around him: the garden, the house, even Remus himself. He wants to hear the photos scream as they burn, the love and pain and lies burning with them. Instead, a single flame in the form of a serpent glides from the tip of his wand, alive and sentient but entirely underwhelming. He tries again, sending another serpentine flame, but it`s useless. They lick the boxes lazily until turning back to face him, as if to say _stop fooling yourself, you know you have to mean it._

He turns his back to the dying fire and starts slowly trudging towards the house, hands shoved deep into his pockets. The crumpled receipt is still clutched in his fist, an unbreakable vow. He`d sworn to it so long ago, in a naive daze of a pre-war morning, before all the deceit and cruelty and death.

_D`you think we`ll be like this forever, Remus?_

_Yes. I`ll always love you._


End file.
